


What's Left Behind

by yaoikuza



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 07:53:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9428309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaoikuza/pseuds/yaoikuza
Summary: Ezra trains with Maul to expand his knowledge and strength, but the Dark Side is not easy for a former Jedi to learn, and even harder for a former Sith to teach.





	

“Can I ask a question?”

Ezra’s voice bubbles out of him like water from a pot, left to simmer and forgotten. No doubt this is how he sees himself–neglected, cast from Maul’s thoughts as they sit cross-legged in meditation.

Of course, nothing could be further from the truth. The boy is–and has been, for some time–Maul’s focus, not unlike the key piece in a game of Dejarik. If used correctly, Ezra has the power to take the entire board, but he cannot do so until the smaller pieces have moved into place. In this way, he is both Maul’s pupil and his pawn, and Maul must teach and play the game simultaneously. It is a monumental task, one that he approaches with utmost patience–thus, Ezra’s interruption does not annoy, it amuses.

“I believe that _was_ a question,” Maul replies. The corners of his mouth pull ever slightly upwards. “But if you wish to ask a second, you may.”

“Do Sith usually meditate this much?”

Maul opens his eyes and finds the boy slouched over, chin cradled in his hands and elbows propped on his knees, the exact opposite of Maul’s rigid meditation pose.

“I am Sith no longer,” Maul reminds his apprentice, once again more amused than annoyed. “All who would call themselves thus are my enemy. But even so, I find the Dark Side benefits from introspection.”

Ezra blinks at him with eyes half-lidded, and when he does not respond, Maul clarifies.

“ _Yes_ , Sith meditate.”

“I knew what you meant,” Ezra grumbles. He shifts in place, rolls his neck and shoulders. “I just–I thought you would be different. I thought we’d be _doing_ things. Going places. Hurting the Empire.”

“That is not a foe easily vanquished.”

“I _know_ that, but still, all this sitting around, doing nothing…! You’re no different than Kanan.”

That final word is heavier than the others, sharpened to a point and aimed directly at his master. Maul knows what the boy is doing; in his boredom and impatience, he hopes to spurn the former Sith to action. The tactic works, to a degree; Maul’s amusement falls away, replaced with something he does not quite know how to describe. Frustration, perhaps. Frustration at Ezra’s immaturity, at the comparison to Kanan Jarrus, and at himself for letting it affect him at all.

But Maul does not rise to the challenge. Instead, he closes his eyes to resume meditation, prompting his student to do the same.

“I am _always_ working towards our goal, young apprentice. Never doubt it.” Those words come out harsher than Maul intends, and he takes a long, centering breath. “Use this time to contemplate your feelings and discard those that no longer serve you.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Ezra’s voice is distant, his eyes shut and thoughts turned inward. There’s a sincerity in his tone, a willingness to learn that no good teacher could ignore. Patience returns to Maul with unexpected ease, flowing through and around him much like the Force.

“What do you feel now, my apprentice?”

“I dunno. Hungry, I guess.”

Maul almost smiles. Ah, youth.

“That will do for the moment. Ask yourself how that hunger serves you, and how far you would go to satiate it. Then imagine what you would do if your hunger could not be quelled.”

“I don’t have to _imagine_.”

Emotion rolls from Ezra in waves, sending ripples through the Force and his master. Maul opens his mind to it, and sees flashes of a young boy on Lothal, his belly empty and aching. The boy searches for his meal at the bottom of a trash compactor, or steals it from poor farmers who can barely grow enough to feed themselves. There’s shame in these memories, but anger too; hatred for the Empire that killed his parents and ruined his planet.

Those emotions stir similar memories in Maul, images of a boy in an empty cell, denied food and contact so he might rid his need for either. Like the boy on Lothal, he emerges from his trial emaciated and angry, but connected to something much stronger than hunger.

“Is that how you became Sith?”

The question catches Maul off-guard, like a hand reaching for his own in the dark. How–?

Of course. Their connection flows both ways. When Maul opened himself to Ezra’s feelings, he gave the boy insight to his own mind–a realization that does not disturb Maul as deeply as he might have assumed. Still, he takes another breath, willing himself into the present.

“Those were but my first steps towards the Dark Side, as they were–I suspect–for you.”

“No, it’s different for me,” Ezra insists. He’s looking for something inside himself, but his search is blind, directionless. “Those memories–they don’t give me strength. They just _hurt_. How did you take all that pain and turn it into power?”

“By giving it purpose,” is Maul’s swift, efficient answer. “A singular focus for my rage.”

Master and apprentice are silent for a long moment, the Force a current between them, flowing in and out, steady and sure. Ezra reaches for his master’s thoughts the way one reaches for familiar edges in a darkened room, and Maul allows him to glimpse those early days of his training–the origin of his pain.

“Your Master,” Ezra says at last.

“Good,” Maul replies, pleased by the boy’s mindfulness. “Yes, I hated my master, longed to strike him down for all the horrors he inflicted on me. That hatred gave me the strength to conquer many enemies. _‘Through victory, my chains are broken_.’”

“ _‘The Force will set me free_ ,’” Ezra echoes. Then, slowly: “I guess that’s why it’s different for me. My anger doesn’t have a target. Not really. I hate the Empire, but that’s… that’s like hating a fire, not the one who started it. How do I find what you have? That _focus_?”

“If I were still Sith, the answer would be obvious. I would hunt down and slay your former master, igniting your hatred for me and deepening your connection to the Dark Side.”

The Force wavers between them. The steady current becomes a churning, frothing tide, rising upwards and out. Maul opens his eyes and sees that Ezra has done the same, his brows furrowed and lip curled in frustration.

“Alright, first of all, that kind of logic is _exactly_ why the Sith need to die, and second, you _did_ try to kill Kanan. Don’t act like–”

“ _And yet he lives_ ,” Maul presses. Ezra anger stokes his own, but no more than a torch to a great pyre. Maul absorbs and stifles it, calming his end of their connection. “I remind you again: I am no longer Sith. I will _not_ make myself the focus of your anger–that tactic has failed me time and again. You will learn the strength of the Dark Side, my apprentice, but not in the old ways.”

“How then?” Ezra replies, impatient, but not as angry as before.

“That-” Maul closes both eyes and shakes his head as if to clear it, “is exactly what I have been contemplating. I am unsure how to continue your training–and I suspect we will have to find the answers together.”

Even with his eyes shut, Maul is intensely aware of Ezra’s movements. The boy swallows and Maul feels the stretch of his throat; he sits up straighter, holds himself higher, breathes a little slower.

In time, the Force grows calm and the room, quiet. The air is still–until Ezra’s voice cuts across it once again.

“Master?”

Maul doesn’t reply, but his mind is open, receptive.

“I’m glad that you don’t want me to hate you.”

At this, Maul actually manages a half-smile. It’s a small, wry thing, but a smile nonetheless.

“No one is more surprised than I.”

*

In a wide, empty room, six training drones circle Ezra, all darting and weaving around him in their own unique patterns. Three release a hail of bolts and Ezra blocks each one with his lightsaber, but strikes none in return.

Maul paces the perimeter, his face impassive and hands clasped behind his back. He offers no comment and no praise–Ezra’s performance warrants neither. The boy seems more interested in avoiding damage than causing it, a tactic that will keep him alive, but earn him no victories.

Maul stills when Ezra cries out; a fresh wound burns red and bright across his arm, and the Force surges around him like a nova, ready to burst. His breath quickens–Maul’s stops entirely, waiting for Ezra to single out the drone that hurt him and _strike it down_.

Ezra screams again and lashes out–but his movements are wild and erratic, no precision or finesse. He tries to strike every drone at once, and when his blade finds a target, it crashes to the floor in spectacular carnage. Another crumples entirely, crushed by an invisible fist. One by one, the drones fall, but Ezra loses ground each time. He’s driven backwards until the room is littered with metal and the air hangs thick with smoke.

There’s no sound but the hiss of Ezra’s lightsaber and each heavy, labored breath. The anger Maul sensed only moments ago has burned away, yet the boy’s thoughts are still frenzied and unfocused.

“Your mind wanders, young apprentice,” Maul calls from across the room. “I need you _here_.”

“Right.” Ezra deactivates his lightsaber and wipes the sweat from his brow. Maul gets the distinct feeling that Ezra has heard these words before.

“Your former master. He, too, struggled to keep you present.”

“You gonna _lecture_ me like Kanan would?”

“Perhaps,” Maul shrugs, tilting his head as if to consider the idea. It’s a jest, meant to put the boy at ease. He can sense Ezra closing their connection, stifling his emotions–or trying to, at least. Maul folds both hands behind his back and paces the room once more.

“Was it he who drew you from this moment?”

Ezra’s resolve wavers. Something is rising up inside of him, something not quite anger or sorrow. It’s filling him up and pushing at the cracks–Maul only need to wait for it to seep out.

“Yeah,” Ezra admits. “Kind of.”

And there it is: _Shame_. He’s ashamed of himself. Ashamed for leaving the _Ghost_ , for disappointing Hera, for not being the Jedi that Kanan wanted. Ashamed for missing them so desperately, as if missing them betrays Maul somehow, and ashamed that he is not yet strong enough to protect them all.

Words and emotion pour from Ezra. He surrenders to it, lets them come in slow, steady waves.

“When I’m fighting, I can remember what Kanan taught me. Not just the paces, or how to hold a lightsaber, but his wisdom. Things are clear. It’s like I’m not even inside my own body–there’s no thought, just motion.”

Maul slows his footsteps, silent and uncertain. Their mental link is open, the Force flowing between them, yet Ezra’s words find no connection. They ring empty and hollow, for unlike Ezra’s memories of fear or pain, these have no equivalent inside of Maul. This stirs in him no small amount of unease, but Ezra doesn’t seem to notice.

“And then… I dunno. I’ll remember something, or- or _feel_ something…” Ezra’s fingers grace over the blaster wound. “And things get… less clear.”

“What did the Jedi tell you to do, when clarity is lost?”

“Nothing useful,” Ezra sneers. “Just the same old stuff. ‘ _Never strike in anger_.’ _‘Let go of your pain_.’ Like I’m going to get shot and _choose_ not to feel it!”

“Yes, you understand!” Maul praises. “The clarity you feel is an illusion, fleeting and temporary. It is a great lake, smooth and still upon its surface but churning underneath, and rippled by the smallest stone. Disturbance is _inevitable_.”

“‘ _Peace is a lie_.” Ezra’s voice is far away, and his end of their bond, oddly still.

Maul ignites half of his double-bladed saber.

“Raise your weapon, my apprentice. Strike at your foe with the singular purpose of victory, even when you are struck in return. Let each new cut fuel your pain, and your power.”

Ezra doesn’t respond. His eyes roam the length of Maul’s body, as if to study the width of his stance, the angle of his shoulders and the red blade held aloft. The boy ignites his own saber and takes a step to the right. Maul mirrors that step, then the next, and the third. Master and apprentice circle the room, each waiting for the other to strike. It’s a battle of patience and willpower–and Maul wins.

Of _course_ he wins.

Ezra rushes forward and slashes at his master. Maul parries the blow, then moves back when Ezra advances. The boy is not without skill–he trusts his blade and his instincts, allowing him to anticipate the moves of a much more seasoned opponent. 

But Maul outstrips him in form and experience, and it’s not long before his blade finds its target. With neat and terrible precision, Maul grazes the blaster wound on Ezra’s arm, making the boy stumble and shout in pain.

Anger swells within him, and Ezra takes a wild swing at Maul. His blows are raw and powerful–but it’s a flame that burns out all too quickly. Again Maul presses him, aims for that reddened arm in the hopes of drawing out Ezra’s rage–instead, it is Maul who grows more and more frustrated.

“Where is your _anger_ , Ezra?! Where is your hatred?!”

He disarms the boy in one smooth, efficient motion, then grabs Ezra in a Force-hold and _slams_ him to the ground. He pins the apprentice beneath a heavy, metal foot and Ezra scrabbles against it with both hands.

“Where is your _fear_?!” he growls, leaning his weight into the boy’s sternum.

Suddenly, the scene changes–it’s no longer Ezra staring up at him, but a Zabrak, yellow of skin and so very, very familiar.

Savage.

Savage, _alive_. So real and tangible that Maul can see the fine lines of his face, smell his sweat and the heavy musk of each gasping breath. Anger and fear courses through Savage, but something else, too. Something Maul has long reached for, but never touched.

And somehow, through all of this, Maul also sees himself; a tall, towering monster, void of light and mercy. Thus Savage saw him in days long past, and thus Savage sees him now.

No, not Savage. _Ezra_.

Maul stumbles backwards, and the vision breaks. Ezra inhales sharply, a sound of both surprise and relief. He rolls to his side, coughing, trembling–Maul, too, can’t quite seem to find his breath. His shoulders heave and his fingers curl tight around the red lightsaber.

“What– _Who_ – was _that_?” Ezra sputters.

Maul doesn’t answer. He turns away from his apprentice, crushes a fallen drone with no more than a wave of his hand and sends it careening into the wall. He can feel the boy searching his thoughts, as if Maul would surrender those any easier than words. He tries to sever their mental connection, but Ezra is a needle in his mind, threading deeper than even Maul cares to go.

“He was your apprentice,” Ezra says. “Your… Your _brother_!”

Still Maul does not reply. He begins to pace the room, not in slow, deliberate steps as before, but like an animal caged.

Ezra struggles to his feet. “You said the Sith killed him!”

The needle burrows deeper, tries to pierce the memory of Savage’s death, but that is a place in Maul well guarded. Denied, Ezra asks the obvious question–one Maul cannot possibly ignore.

“Did you kill your brother?”

“ _Never_ ,” Maul hisses. He meets Ezra’s gaze for just a moment, eyes narrowed and blazing. “Never.”

“But you blame yourself,” Ezra replies, so calm and passive that Maul wants to gut him. Another drone crashes from floor to wall. “I get it now. You trained your brother the same way you were trained, but it didn’t make him stronger. That’s why you don’t want me to hate you.”

Ezra sounds so sure of himself, as if all the answers have laid out before him. But Maul is not a riddle so easily solved, the result of a single, tragic event but instead a lifetime of agony and loss. His mother, his limbs, his planet, his people–little by little, every piece of Maul was cut away, until there was nothing left but shadow.

“I’m sorry,” the boy says, and Maul’s lip curls into a sneer.

“Discard your pity, Ezra Bridger. I have no need of it, and it will make you weak.”

Ezra’s reply is soft, but no less confident. “No, it won’t.”

Without warning, Maul lunges at his apprentice. He brings the fiery blade to Ezra’s throat, and though Ezra flinches, he does not back away.

“If I raise my blade to strike you down, will _pity_ stay your hand?”

Ezra holds his gaze, those eyes wide and piercingly blue, even in the red light of Maul’s saber. He swallows thickly, unable to deny his fear.

“Yes.”

“Then you will _die_.”

“No, I won’t, because you would never hurt me.”

The blade wavers. Maul tightens his grip, bares his teeth as if to ready himself for the final blow–and Ezra merely waits, still and silent and terrified. 

Maul cannot make sense of it. How can the boy be so afraid, yet so certain? How can he face down a creature of void of mercy and expect to survive?

Again, Ezra reminds him of Savage, all those years ago. That horrible, fateful moment when Savage reached out to him as a brother, and Maul responded as a Sith. Savage had been frightened then, but something else too–something Maul had never once allowed himself, when it was he who faced down a cruel, unfeeling master.

The lightsaber deactivates with a sudden hiss. Maul steps away from Ezra, his arm going slack.

“There it is again,” he murmurs. “Filling you up like a fire, and yet slipping through my fingers like smoke.”

“What is?”

Maul’s shoulders rise and fall. “ _Hope_. Savage had it, as did our mother. As do you.”

“It’s in you, too,” Ezra says, but without conviction, like a child playacting at wisdom, reciting words he’s memorized but does not understand.

“No.” Maul shakes his head again. “This is why the Emperor took me as his apprentice–not my mother, not any of my brothers. He saw in me a creature much like himself, empty of light.”

It feels strange to admit out loud. Maul has thought it many times, but hearing it is different. More real, somehow.

“’ _I am not like you_. _I never was._ ’ Those were Savage’s last words. He died believing himself unworthy of my teachings, but it was I who failed to realize… My training was limited. Thus the Emperor took my successors from the Jedi ranks, to forge a weapon well learned in both sides of the Force.”

Maul steps forward, until he is close enough to place a hand on Ezra’s shoulder. “ _This_ is why you must forge a connection to the Dark Side, my apprentice. Become the weapon I cannot. When both the Light and the Dark are summoned to your side as easily as a lightsaber, we will destroy the Sith. _Together_.”

Ezra nods in response, slow and uneven. At last, he perceives the long path before them, but the way forward is unclear, to him and Maul both.

“That thing you said before, how hope is always… fading away like smoke? That’s how anger is for me. It’s a- a _fire_ inside…” Ezra motions to the center of his chest. “I can feel it, but… I can’t grasp it. It just burns away.”

Maul’s hand slips from Ezra’s shoulder as he begins to pace once more. His steps are calculated and careful; he appreciates Ezra’s meaning, but again the sentiment makes no connection. The fire Ezra speaks of is always burning in Maul, sometimes bright and all-consuming, sometimes kindled down low, but never extinguished. Ezra senses this, and his brows arch upward, imploring.

“Is there no other way but hatred?”

At Ezra’s age, Maul would have said no. As a freshly anointed Sith Lord, he would have said no. But Maul has seen much since then, and touched the Dark Side in many ways.

He thinks on moments when his connection to the Force was strongest. Memories of rage come easily, but Maul casts them aside and pushes deeper.

Without his anger and pain, there isn’t much left of him–just a shadow, the shape of what he used to be and everything he’s lost. And yet… the shadow endures. No matter what is torn away, no matter how desperately it wishes to fade into darkness, the shadow endures.

Of course. Maul didn’t see it before because he didn’t _want_ to see it. He wanted to believe that Ezra’s rage would be enough, but to discover his deepest power, Ezra would need to feel what Maul felt when the Jedi cut in him in two–and what Vader, the greatest of them all, must have felt when the fires of Mustafar tore away his flesh.

Maul can sense Ezra searching through his mind, and how he recoils at what he finds. The boy’s heartbeat quickens, even before his master speaks.

“Yes. I know another way.”

*

There is a small planet in wild space, mountainous and cold, hidden from the sun by its nearest kin. The Dark Side flourishes in such an absence of light, and it is here that Maul brings Ezra for his trial.

Master and apprentice step down from their ship, and already, their breath comes out in white curls, spinning and swirling into the air. Their first steps on flat ground carry the gentle crunch of frost, and tendrils of snow whip up and away, so very pale in the moonlight.

The path brings them to a lake nestled in a tall ravine, chilled but not frozen over. At the foot of the water, Maul sheds his dark robe, leaving his chest and robotic legs completely bare. Ezra, too, removes a heavy cloak, but wears a simple outfit underneath; a shirt more black than grey with pants and boots to match.

Ezra steps into the frigid waters until it reaches his waist. He makes a hiss of discomfort, reminding Maul that such things used to bother him as well. A combination of circuitry and Sith training has left him indifferent to pain, and he follows Ezra without the smallest sound.

Maul stops just behind the boy, and watches Ezra fold both hands behind his back. Maul shackles them with silver manacles, then holds Ezra firmly, one hand on his wrists, the other at the nape of his neck.

“The water will test your body,” Maul reminds him. “The Dark Side will test your spirit. Remember, one can persist far longer than the other.”

Maul takes a breath.

“Now, say it again.”

“‘ _Through victory, my chains are broken_.’“ Ezra’s voice is clear in the night. “ _‘The Force will set me free_.’”

“Again.”

“‘ _Through victory, my chains are broken_ _. The Force will-_ ’”

Maul pushes on the back of Ezra’s skull, folding him neatly at the waist. His head plunges into the water before he can steel himself or fill his lungs, and for a moment he struggles out of pure surprise and reflex. He quickly submits to the ritual, however, and grows completely still beneath his master.

Before long, Maul pulls Ezra upright, then plunges him down again. Three times he does this, each in quicker succession, until at last he thrusts Ezra into those black waters and holds him there.

The rocks, the snow and wind have all gone unnaturally still, as if the whole planet is waiting for one of them to move. Though the apprentice offers no resistance, his master’s arms are taut, every muscle pulled tight and braced for impact.

Maul doesn’t lift Ezra from the water. He waits. And waits. And waits.

Ezra jerks without warning–sudden, spastic. His shoulders roll, his head strains against Maul’s grasp. At last, his need for air overrides submission.

Maul wrenches him up. Ezra takes a sharp, desperate breath, and Maul forces him back down.

Ezra’s whole body fights him now. His hands twist in Maul’s grasp, his head thrashes and his feet kick against metallic legs. Ezra pushes himself upwards, sideways, anywhere to escape his master–but Maul is stronger, and he does not relent.

He pulls Ezra up, and the boy tries to stand straight, but Maul keeps him bent at the waist. Again and again he forces Ezra into the water, allowing him a single breath before plunging him down, holding him longer and longer each time.

Ezra’s strength begins to wane. His thrashing grows weak and frail, coming in bursts smaller and small until they fade away entirely.

“No…!”

Ezra’s cry is a soft, desperate thing. His head shakes limply in Maul’s grasp, wet hair threaded between red fingers. 

“No,” he says again, not a struggle, but a surrender. “No, please…”

Down again, but not for very long.

“Please!” Ezra sobs, chest heaving, face wrenched in agony. “No more! Please, master, _please_ no more…!”

Master. How that word aches inside of Maul. He, too, used to beg his master for mercy, as a child weak and mewling and then again in the wake of Savage’s death; so many times, he cried out for the pain to stop, but it never did. _It never would._

“ _Please_! Please, I _can’t_ -”

Maul tilts Ezra backwards, arching his back and baring his throat in complete submission. He wants to stop. _Needs_ to stop. Neither he nor Ezra have the will to go on, so why continue? Why endure?

Why pick himself up from the training floor, only to be beaten back down again? Why languish for years in the filth and grease when death would been so much easier? Why take up his blade when Savage was struck down? Why keep fighting through it all?

_Why?_

Ezra’s heart is beating so fast. Maul can sense it, even through his confusion, his panic and pain. There’s so much strength inside of Ezra, even here and now, but he doesn’t see it.

He deserves to see it. He deserves to know that he can survive anything. Any trial. Any loss.

Maul steels himself, tightens his grip on Ezra’s wrists.

“Master, no! _Please_!”

Down. Down into the darkness. Down into the place without mercy or light. Hope will not save him–only that strength inside.

Maul holds Ezra beneath the water, so black and deep that Maul can see him no longer. The boy is still. The ravine, silent. For a long moment, the only sound is Maul’s own ragged breath.

_Please, Ezra. Please…_

And then… Maul sees it. Snow, swirling in the air, slowly at first but gaining speed. The water mirrors it, begins to churn in a deliberate circle, a cyclone of which Ezra is the eye. It spins faster and faster, whipping the wind and parting the water–

Until it _explodes_ outwards, knocking Maul from his feet. He does not fall into the lake, but upon hard, cold earth instead–the lake is _gone_ , every drop of water pushed away and frozen solid. Master and apprentice are ringed by great waves of ice, and snow rains down on them in earnest.

In the center of it all is Ezra, his shackles broken and body doubled over, chest heaving as he sucks in each hard-earned breath.

Ezra _screams_. He _roars_. It is a sound of utmost agony, of deepest pain and hope denied. Twice he does this, but the second ends with a strangled sound, a sob half caught in his throat.

“Yes, that’s it!” Maul says. He staggers to the boy’s side, but dares not touch him. “That’s the power of the Dark Side! It is the strength to endure through pain unending, without hope or light or even life itself.”

Ezra does not answer. He stands there, head bowed and back slumped, hands curled into fists. Maul wavers.

“Ezra?”

He drops to his knees, grips Ezra’s shoulders and raises his head, at last meeting the boy’s gaze.

Hot, steady tears roll down Ezra’s face. His skin is pale, and his eyes, ringed with red. His lips tremble, and he makes another strange, choked sob before a childish wail bursts out of him.

His whole body goes slack. Maul catches him and cradles the boy against his broad chest. Ezra clings to him, sobbing and shaking, tears dripping from his nose and chin. He buries his face in the crook of Maul’s neck and Maul lets him weep until he runs dry.

Maul finds himself whispering. Words flow out of him much like Ezra’s tears, words Maul did not know he could make.

“You did so well, my Ezra, my brother. So well.” His fingers stroke through the boy’s hair. “You will be the greatest of us all, the deepest shadow, the brightest star–”

In time, he carries the boy to their ship. Ezra is motionless in his arms, his sobs long quieted, his eyes bleary and distant and crusted with salt. He says nothing when Maul enters his bedchamber, nor when Maul stands him upright and strips the wet clothes from his body, then dresses him in something loose and clean.

“Rest now, my brother.”

Maul turns to leave, but a hand grips his wrist. The touch is firm, yet gentle, and when Maul looks to Ezra once more, those blue eyes remain unfocused and distant.

“Do you wish me to stay?”

There’s no answer, nor words, nor motion. Only a hand on his own.

Maul lifts the boy into his arms once more and drapes him across the bed. Maul fits so very neatly against him, his chest pressed to Ezra’s back and their arms entwined.

And in the depths of wild space, sleep finds them.

*

Maul wakes where he fell asleep–in Ezra’s bed. He hasn’t moved at all in the night, but the boy is no longer in his arms, instead sitting upright beside him.

Ezra traces his fingers along Maul’s arm and shoulder, collarbone and throat, admiring the black marks. 

“Who gave you these?” Ezra wonders, his voice soft and hands even more so. The tenderness of it is strange against Maul’s skin.

“My mother,” comes the easy reply. Maul’s eyes are trained on Ezra’s face, and he sits upright only when the boy draws his hand away. “A Nightsister would mark her son in infancy, so she would always know him, even after sending him to the Nightbrother clan.”

“That’s nice,” Ezra says, his smile warm and thoughts drifting to bygone days of Lothal. Maul senses it and allows himself a small, hollow laugh.

“It was pragmatism, not sentiment. When a Nightsister would come to select her mate, she avoided the markings of her own sons and brothers.”

“Fair enough,” Ezra grins, raising his hands in mock surrender. “But I think it’s _also_ nice, because it was something your master couldn’t take away, like your real name. No matter where you went, a part of your family always stayed with you.”

Maul doesn’t know what to make of that. He envisions his mother’s hand, guiding him through every trial, but it brings him no comfort–quite the opposite, in fact. A pain begins to swell in his chest that fuels no fire, inspires no action; instead, it threatens to rise up into his throat and strangle him, so Maul cuts it down and casts it aside.

“It’s merely ink,” he says at last. “All Nightbrothers bore such markings.”

“There’s so many… They must have taken forever, even on a little kid.”

“Performed properly, the ritual would last for hours,” Maul concurs. Then, glancing off and away: “From what I’ve read, at least.”

Ezra’s fingers ghost across Maul’s chest. “Do you know how to perform such a ritual?”

Maul’s eyes flick to Ezra’s.

“Could you… mark me?”

Maul searches Ezra’s face and feelings. His mind is steady but muted; the thoughts that cried out to Maul only a day before are now whispers, and Maul cannot tell if their connection has broken, or if the boy’s mind is truly this calm and quiet. Both twist uncomfortably in Maul’s gut.

Still, Ezra’s face betrays no malice, and the hand on Maul’s chest is warm and soft, touching the heart beneath that aches for kinship and mourns the Nightbrothers long gone.

The preparations take time. Maul must find the right inks, the right tools. In the days that pass and through all the worlds they visit, Ezra meditates without prompting, strikes down his training drones with renewed strength and purpose. They never speak of his time in the water.

When Maul’s quarters are prepared at last, they hardly resemble the cold, spartan living chambers of a Sith–former or otherwise. They seem more like the old ruins of Dathomir, cluttered and cavernous, candles lit in every corner and red markings strewn across the walls. The air hangs thick with the scent of incense and smoke obscures the ceiling, and in this room, in this small moment, the Nightsisters and brothers live again.

Ezra sits cross-legged in the center of it all, his chest bare. Maul is similarly disrobed; he kneels beside Ezra in nothing but metal and flesh, skin and ink.

Maul wets a cloth in a shallow bowl and wrings it tight, squeezing away the excess water. He bathes Ezra’s right arm, where the marks will flow in strong, black lines. A smooth balm is also worked into his skin, massaged into his palm and between his fingers, up his wrist and forearm and the crease of his elbow. Ezra makes a low, pleasant sort of hum and closes his eyes as if in mediation. 

The first strike of a needle awakens something familiar in Maul, small and long forgotten. It blossoms across his mind like spilled ink on parchment; a mother’s song, perhaps, a sense of safety and belonging, warm and everlasting. The feeling pours out of Maul and connects inside of Ezra, rouses thoughts of a woman who is more of a scent than a memory, and a Twi’lek made of durasteel and compassion, kind words and engine oil. 

For the first time in several days, their bond is open and clear, a steady current, an equal exchange.

Sometimes they speak. Sometimes, they even laugh. Through most of the ritual, however, both are silent, allowing thoughts and memories to pass between them–things they never wanted to share with anyone, least of all each other.

Maul sees through Ezra the crew of the _Ghost_ , how good and righteous they were, and how Ezra’s fear and anger made him unworthy of their company. He sees Kanan, encouraging Ezra to shed his emotion, but he _cannot_ , and Ezra hates himself for it.

From Maul pours similar memories, every moment of doubt along his dark path and the times he _longed_ to turn away from it, every plea for mercy from both himself and his victims, which he never gave nor received.

Maul expects to feel pity, or shame–but there is neither. Only understanding. It carves deep lines in both of them, as real and bold as their shared markings.

When the ritual is complete, Ezra’s arm is rubbed down with ointment and bandaged. He will not hold a lightsaber for some time. Both master and apprentice are exhausted, their limbs heavy, the weight of it all somehow amplified by their bond. Still, Ezra stands, and Maul does the same, begins to clear away his tools.

But something stops him. A hand, grasping his wrist just as before. Only this time, Ezra speaks.

“Rest now, brother.”

*

Maul wakes in his own bed, the sheets tangled and candles burned away. The smoke has cleared, the incense faded, and when Maul reaches for Ezra he finds nothing. No one.

“Ezra?”

Maul sits upright and closes both eyes, feeling for his apprentice through the Force. Everything seems… still. There’s no hum of the hyperdrive, nor the steady, rhythmic pulse of the air filters. Maul realizes with a jolt that the engines have shut down–the ship is planetside, brought to rest on some world whose energy Maul does not recognize.

“ _Ezra?!_ ”

Maul’s lightsaber flies easily to his hand, and the former Sith rushes from his chambers. The docking bay doors have opened, the ramp extended downwards–Ezra, of course, stands at the bottom, a pack slung across his shoulders.

Ezra stares up at Maul. He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t have to.

“You can’t!” Maul cries. When Ezra does not respond, Maul descends the docking ramp.

“ _You can’t!_ ” he says again, harder, firmer. “You are my apprentice! My _brother_!”

He snatches up Ezra’s bandaged arm. Ezra flinches, but does not pull away. “This mark was not lightly given!”

“Nor lightly taken,” Ezra insists. He meets Maul’s gaze, resolute, and Maul holds him fast.

“Where will you go?” Maul jeers. “Back to your Rebellion? To your precious _Jedi_?”

“No. Kanan doesn’t have what I need. You were right about me; I have to find a way to master both sides of the Force. I can’t do that if I stay here. I’ll lose touch with the Light–I’ll lose that part of myself.”

“Ezra-”

“You can’t hold me under!” Ezra pleads, all but _begging_ Maul to understand. “I’ll _drown_!” 

His wrist slips from Maul’s fingers. Everything is all wrong; so entirely different, yet exactly the same. He’s being left again, used and discarded, and Maul remembers with sudden, horrible clarity that being the last of his kind was in fact preferable to being separated from them. Maul cups Ezra’s cheek and presses their brows together.

“Ezra, please. Are we not brothers?”

The boy takes a deep, shuddering breath. The emotions flowing through him are warm and affectionate, washing over Maul like sunlight. He knows, deep inside, that Ezra _wants_ to stay, and it’s taking every inch of his strength to step backwards.

“We’ll meet again one day,” he promises. “Believe in that.”

But those words mean nothing to Maul, no more than a language he’s never heard, or a color he’s never seen.

“How?” he implores, his eyes burrowing into Ezra’s, round and mournful. “ _How_ am I supposed to believe that?”

A hand touches his chest, palm flat and fingers spread wide. 

“Have _hope_.”

For three heartbeats that hand lingers, no more or less, before Ezra turns away. The further he gets, the emptier Maul feels, alone and suffocating, another part of him cut away. Have hope. _Have hope._

He scrabbles in the dark, desperate to find that safety, that certainty–but as always, rage comes much faster and easier, his pain transformed to passion.

Maul’s lightsaber activates with a loud, angry pulse. Ezra pauses at the sound, but does not turn.

After a moment’s silence, he steps forward. Maul makes no move. No sound. No attack.

They both knew he never would.


End file.
